


The melodies that bind our souls together

by GwenChan



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Based on a Tumblr Post, Ficlet, Gen, Growing Up, M/M, Music, Pining, Pre-Canon, Singing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-30
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-13 00:30:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10502682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwenChan/pseuds/GwenChan
Summary: A story where if your soulmate sings you are forced to sing the same tune.Yuri is in deep denial and Victor is pining.





	1. First movement: Yuri

**The melodies that bind our souls together**

 

Katsuki Yuri knew that his soulmate wasn’t Japanese. 

 

At the beginning the rhymes that here and there had poured from his child lips, without warning of any sort, were mistaken for the blabbering of a toddler. Then, as Yuri grew up, the casual songs acquired a sense, a meaning, and a reason.

There were no doubts it was a language. Just as there were no doubts such language wasn’t Japanese. Neither it was English. Yuri’s parents had long wondered where the songs their son hummed came from.

 

Until a guest at the Yu-topia had recognised the ballad a five-year old Yuri was muttering under his breath. The guest was a Russian man on a honeymoon. He said it was a nursery rhyme, very famous among Russian children, mostly used to put them to sleep.

It meant two things. Yuri’s soulmate was Russian. Yuri’s soulmate lived in the other side of the globe.

 

Having a soulmate from across the globe proved to be more an issue than anything. Indeed, due to the difference in time zone, it often happened for Yuri’s soulmate to be awake and in the mood for singing just when the kid was about to slide into sleep. Yuri laid there, eyes fixed on the ceiling, as mysterious notes lingered on his mouth.

 

Yuri was twelve years old when he discovered the genius and radiance of Victor Nikiforov. The Russian skater’s elegance glued Yuri’s eyes to the small television screen, silver hair twirling around with the momentum of a sit spin. Victor was a fairy born from the ice itself. His skates wrote poems on the crisp icy surface. His movements produced music.

And if Yuri recognised in the FS piece the one he’d kept singing for a whole week now, he tossed the thought away. 

That piece was a famous one after all. Other skaters had used it before.

 

“Yuri, isn’t it the piece Victor used last season?” Yuko asked when she heard him singing it, her words interrupted by the melody Takeshi was humming. They had discovered to be soulmate at seven.

Yuri shrugged, turtling his head in his shoulders, hands buried in the pockets of his hoodie. 

“Probably. Must be famous now,” he trailed off. 

 

Yuri was fourteen when he started studying Russian. Repeating a word he couldn’t yet quite grasp, the accent foreign to his tongue, he wondered if his soulmate was doing the same with Japanese, unsure of the meaning behind Yuri’s songs. Have they already began to memorize the first kanji or had resigned to learn the romaji version only?

After two months of dedicated studying Yuri could begin to grasp some word here and there of the melodies that kept him awake at night or erupted in the middle of a school lesson.

 

Yuri had been so embarrassed. With eyes locked to the ground, he mumbled his apologies. 

 

But nothing could compare when Yuri’s mouth had started crying the Russian anthem in the middle of a dancing routine at Minako studio. It was the day of the male FS at the Rostelecom Cup, the one Yuri would’ve soon watched the recording of.

A new gold medal was now hanging from Victor’s neck.

 

Yuri wasn’t yet eighteen when he took a plane for Detroit. Waiting for the boarding, he hummed a relaxing melody to calm his nerves. Flying had never been his thing. He indulged in the familiar rhyme, letting it wash away part of his anxiety. He wondered what activity or conversation or task his singing had interrupted or what his soulmate was thinking.

 

Yuri was twenty and he both loved and hated the ice. He loved the sound of the blades on it, its clearness and coldness. He hated the way it made his stomach twist just before he stepped on it.

He was still singing the music Victor would’ve brought for his next season.

 

Yuri was twenty-one and had some medals to be proud of, but no gold to his name. He clenched the cloth of his costume as he prepared to skate the FS at the Japanese Championships. Coach Celestino was at his side, while Phichit waved enthusiastically from the bleachers. 

Yuri was already in his starting pose when his lips began to mouth a familiar music. Yuri had known it since the last GPF just two weeks prior; it was indeed impossible to forget the upbeat melody that had granted Victor Nikiforov his third consecutive gold.

Yuri skated his program biting his lips to blood to prevent himself from singing, trying desperately to focus on the music of his own program. He ended on the lower step of the podium with a bronze around his neck and a lump in his throat.

 

Yuri was twenty-two and for the first time in years the new song his soulmate was fixated on wasn’t either in Russian or in English. Celestino told him it was an Italian aria.

Some months later, watching the streaming for the Skate Canada on Phichit’s laptop, Yuri recognized the song Victor was skating to the moment it began. 

Phichit shot him a knowing look. Yuri buried his face in his knees. “Stammi Vicino” was by then well embedded in his memory.

 

Yuri was twenty-three and without even knowing how, he had conquered a place among the six best skaters who would accede at the GPF held in Sochi. He was twenty-three, with a Russian’s soulmate that never missed to sing a music from Victor Nikiforov’s programs, way before the programs became public. He was sure it must be a coincidence.

 

Yuri was twenty-three and in deep denial.

 

Yuri was twenty-three and struggling with himself for not bursting into tears. That morning he had just received a phone call with Mari telling him his old toy poodle, Vicchan, had died; then he had basically swallowed three chocolate bars in the vain hope they would’ve helped in filling the emptiness he felt in his stomach. They had made him feel worse, instead.

So now he was sitting in the hallway outside the Sochi’s rink, tapping a nervous foot on the floor, unsure if he wanted to throw up or faint or both. He inhaled from his nose, nails biting into thighs flesh to stop their trembling.

There was a melody Yuri remembered from his childhood, a soothing rhyme that had never failed to calm him down and had often sang to Vicchan to lull him to sleep. Maybe it would be helpful.

Taking a deep breath, he let his mouth forming the first notes and words of the familiar tune, humming it with all his sheer will to set aside everything else.

Yuri didn’t notice it at first, buried as he was in the melody, but the music had an echo as if it wasn’t only coming from Yuri’s mouth. It reverberated in the aisle.

Yuri covered his ears with his hands and continued singing, diving into a tune that brought with it so many peaceful memories. He sniffed as a bit of homesickness set down in his belly. He didn’t stop singing, though, and the echo became even stronger.

Someone was singing Yuri’s song. Someone in the same aisle was singing Yuri’s song.

Yuri’s soulmate was there, in Sochi, in that very same palace, singing in that very same aisle.

 

When Yuri lifted his gaze to inspect the hallway, Victor Nikiforov, four-times gold medallist at both the GP and Worlds, skating legend, and Yuri’s idol, was standing there. He was singing along with Yuri, the last notes off tune in the shock of the moment. They ended in unison. Yuri felt his face burnt, cheeks painted a deep red; his heart beat so strong it was about to break free from Yuri’s chest.

Before Victor could say anything, Yuri ran away, anxiety and denial already working together to make him believe that, no, he was only delusional. He was just deceiving himself. Victor Nikiforov wasn’t, couldn’t be his soulmate. It was a foolish fantasy.

 

Yuri couldn't stop thinking about the fact when he stepped on the ice; he couldn’t stop thinking about it when he flubbed every single jump in the program; he couldn’t stop thinking about it when he felt the first tears tingling at the corner of his eyes, as the scores were announced.

He was thinking about it when he refused the commemorative photo Victor offered him, turning his back on the Russian man before he could see his disappointed expression.

And he was still thinking about it when he started to swallow the first champagne flute during a banquet that would’ve flamed every social network up for weeks to come.

 

And the rest is history.

 


	2. Second movement: Victor

**Second movement: Victor**

 

The power of the soulbond didn’t force Victor to sing until he was already seven. It happened one evening, while he was brushing his teeth with his favourite mint-flavoured toothpaste. The mouth that moved against his will made him sputter all over the sink, but he hardly care.

He rushed to the living room, with the toothbrush dripping on his fingers and his pyjama, the one with a big picture of Cheburaska on the front. It was a little too small for him now, but Victor loved that pyjama. Just like he loved the Cheburaska stuffed toy he still slept with; even if his mama used to say he was a grown boy now and grown boys don’t sleep with a stuffed toy. Especially grown boys that go already to the ice rink all by themselves after school.

 

“Have you heard it, _mamochka_?” he asked, as the last note ended on his lips. His mama turned, a sad smile embellishing her features. She shook her head. “No, I’m sorry.”

Victor frowned. He felt tears of frustration pricking at the corner of his eyes. His quivering lower lip pouted out.

“Oh, myshka,” his mama lulled, wrapping him in a tight hug,” I’m sure I’ll hear it soon.”

 

Victor had to wait another three months for having his family witnessing the phenomenon. It was his granny’s birthday. People were chatting over glasses of vodka and chanting a “Happy Birthday” song, with the noise of cutlery rattling against the porcelains plates in the background. Victor was munching on a salmon tart when an unknown song escaped his mouth. He felt his cheeks became red.

He felt pride swelling in his chest. “Told you so!”

His mama dropped the spoon in the fuming pot of borscht and ran to hug him. His papa ruffled his hair. His dedushka made a wondering face for five entire minutes, before declaring he had recognized the song. Victor shot him a pleading look, eating from his hands.

“It’s called _Kagome Kagome._ I heard it during a trip to Japan.”

 

 

Victor was eight when he shot his hand in the air and asked: “Where is Japan?”

“This is a maths lesson,” the teacher scolded. Victor lowered his head, His classmates giggled. He wasn’t still famous and hadn’t many friends, training leaving little space to socialize.

Just as the teacher was resuming the previous explanation about fractions, Victor began to sing against his will. Unknown Japanese words filled the air, filtering through the fingers Victor had pressed to his mouth. He wasn’t still used to have a public.

The teacher sighted, shaking in head in resignation; he pointed a long stick toward an elongated island near the further east Russian border. Victor nodded, still singing. The teacher gave him a stern look _._

Victor understood, stood up, and walked outside the classroom. He still knew little about time zones, but from where Japan was placed on the map, he could infer it was late afternoon there. Pressing his eyes against the palm of his hands, he could easily imagine a young person singing while walking home for school.

 

Soon the nursery rhymes would’ve been replaced by classical pieces, evergreen tunes of worldwide famous composers. The day that Victor started humming the _Waltz_ from Swan Lake, skating in circle with hands behind his back, a ponytail all but messed-up after hours of practice, nobody at the rink suspected anything.

 

 

Victor was sixteen, a Junior World record and a gold medal to his name. He was sixteen and as the plane flown back from Sofia to St. Petersburg, Yakov was already talking about the programs for his senior debut. Victor shifted in his seat, uncomfortably; his legs were aching and staying still had never been his thing.

“Can we please postpone this to tomorrow?” he huffed. “I’m tired.” And as to prove his point, he turned his head on his coach.

He closed his eyes. Then he began humming. It wasn’t the FS piece he had been singing for weeks now, as he had discovered that doing so helped him in grasping a new side of the choreography, how music and movement created a perfect duet. Instead the melody was foreign, with the montonous rhythm of a 8-bit music. Four notes, repeated over and over again.

 

Of course the music from _Legend of Zelda_ would’ve stuck in Yuri’s brain after a whole day of playing. He sang it absentmindedly.

 

 

Victor was eighteen and had just got his diploma, somehow. He cared little for having obtained the barely passing grade. He was happy and victorious. The season had been great and his head was full of ideas, projects, opportunities. He woke up every morning before dawn, jumping out of bed because he couldn’t wait to step on the rink; the ice was something he could understand. As he walked he chanted his latest favourite music, mingling Russian and international hits. For the first time ever Yakov had given him permission to pick up the song for his SP and Victor surely wanted to make an impression.

He even caressed the idea of choosing a Japanese melody, shifting his program to a totally different taste from the one he was used. He had recently heard a legend about two star-crossed lovers over a documentary that seemed perfect for the choreography he was already imagining.

 

In the end his final choice fell on the remix of a Russian ballad. The star-crossed lovers, however, remained his theme.

 

Few months later the crowd in Moscow was applauding so loud Victor could barely hear his voice. He wondered if somehow, somewhere, his soulmate had watched him and got the message.

 

Two days later he almost choked himself over a spoonful of kasha in a hilarious attempt to obey both the obligation to sing and to swallow the bite.

 

 

Victor was twenty-two, bored as hell during a tedious press conference with a journalist that kept asking the very same question about his plans for the following season.

“If I tell you, it wouldn’t be a surprise,” Victor answered, voice more tired than suggestive. He huffed, despite Yakov always yelling him not to do so. Then, with a cheek cradled in the palm of his hand, he started to sing unwillingly. Familiar Japanese words poured from his lips, in a melody that Victor had learnt to recognize. This often his mysterious soulmate had sung it. It was a soothing tune, low and sweet, 

The journalists stared for a moment, brains wheels spinning at full speed.

A moment after the camera flashes exploded. 

 

Victor was twenty-three and had just flubbed a quad toe-loop in training because his soulmate had started to sing the main theme of some second-rate movie. “The King and the Skater,” Victor believed it was called, the song having been already featured more than once in the previous skating seasons. His side collided hard with the unforgiving ice, the momentum of the rotation sending him to slam against the barrier. 

Yakov was already yelling. Victor sighed, once the singing had stopped.

“It’s not my fault!” he snapped, tired and aching. 

He didn’t flub the next jump

 

Victor was twenty-three and had just won a gold at the Worlds championship, consolidating his position after the gold at the GPF and the Russian Nationals. The medal gave him a reassuring sensation, its weight pleasing in his fist. The previous year had been quite disastrous, with newspapers already speculating about the end of his shooting career and the unexpected songs that here and there his lips started mouthing.

Now, however, it seemed only a bad dream.

He walked away from the podium, his left hand curled around a carnation bouquet. Yakov grunted, then gave him a pat on the back. “Well done!” he muttered, pride well visible despite his attempts to hide it.

“Told you I could do it,” Victor replied, smugly. Then he started to sing, just as on the other side of the world a Japanese boy was debating between two pieces for his FS. The song was a slow ballad, embedded in sadness; it made Victor’s heart clench.

****

_Soon._ He thought, kissing the cold metal once again. Soon

 

 

 

Victor was twenty-six and seemed unstoppable. He had won gold for four years in a row now. Both the records for the SP and FS were his. He was basically competing with himself and the pressure started to show. With November seeming so close, despite being just early May, Victor wandered aimlessly around St Petersburg in search for something new to drain inspiration from.

The recent weeks had been silent. Of course Victor continued to sing – he always did it when listening to a new piece – but it was always his initiative.

His soulmate was silent. Victor felt lonely.

 

Another two weeks later he was browsing the Net looking for a ì music that could better express the feeling of a lonely lover longing for an even more loney lover. It was past midnight when he stumbled across an Italian aria on YouTube.

 

  
Victor was almost twenty-seven, an age not often seen in the high ranks of competitive figure skating. He was too self-conscious to not know that at every spin and jump everybody, from the public on the stands to the other skaters, had eyes on him, ready to capture the eventual fallout.

People muttering under their breath about “over scoring” were something he was used to.

 

Two days after a SP that had placed him in first position with a clear margin of advantage on the second place, Victor was rehearsing the step sequence in the aisle outside the Sochi’s rink. Having been there already during the 2014 Olympics, the place was familiar. There was always something reassuring in competing on national land, the public support being stronger than the pressure.

As Victor rolled his head back, an arm in the air gliding down to feather-stroke his cheek, he started to sing.

He froze. It had been years since the last time he’d heard that music, that old traditional Japanese song that never failed to make him sad with a profound sense of nostalgia. He let his lips humming the music and, in doing so, he noticed how the melody wasn’t coming only from his mouth. There was someone in the aisle, singing the very same tune.

Victor rushed forward.

 

Victor stared down at the sitting boy. After almost twenty-seven years, there he was, his soulmate, a boy in a Team Japan tracksuit. Some raven tufts escaped his otherwise slicked back hair.

Victor’s soulmate was a competitive skater like him; that mysterious presence that could disappear for weeks and return full charge with a new melody. 

By now Victor was quite an expert on Japanese music. 

He quickly thought about something good to say, but before he could do anything, the boy had ran away, stumbling over his own feet and muttering words so fast Victor couldn’t understand. 

Victor pondered the idea of running after him, but decided against it in the end. If the stranger were a competitive skater their paths would’ve eventually crossed again after a FS Victor had all the intention to win.

 

Victory felt meaningless. The gold medal was dull, too heavy on Victor’s chest; his taste lingered bitter against his lips. He had hoped to approach the boy once again, for a proper introduction and whatever first step a soulmate meeting required; but Katsuki Yuri had disappeared before the competition had even ended. At least Victor knew his name. It was a little reassurance, he thought, walking to the exit of the sports hall.

With his peripheral vision he noticed that someone was glancing at him. He turned, a circumstance smile already plastered on his face. There was something familiar in the boy facing him, a recent memory that he couldn’t quite grasp. 

He offered the boy a commemorative photo anyway, hoping it would help him in remembering that face; because he was sure he mustn’t forget it. The boy instead turned his back on him, dragging a small suitcase.

Refusal was another thing Victor wasn't good to deal with. 

 

The very same evening Victor had an epiphany over the third champagne flute, the realization presented in the bone and flesh of a dishevelled Japanese man taking control of the dance floor. 

Victor recognized him for the boy that had refused the commemorative photograph. He moved nearer, curiosity burning in his chest. Then Victor heard someone calling the boy by name. _Yuri._

All of sudden everything clicked in place. The boy in the hallway, the boy he had met after the competition, it was one and the same. Victor indeed felt very stupid. Not that he had much time to dwell in the sensation, as the boy –Yuri – literally thrown himself against him. He had sparkling eyes, flushed cheeks, and an adorable wrinkled nose.

_“Be my coach”_ he blabbered.

 

Victor sighed.

 

Two months later Victor was calling for a last minute plane ticket for Japan, all while throwing clothes in the suitcase opened on the bedroom floor. Makkachin looked at him, slightly concerned, tongue lolling out of his mouth. In truth Victor had never been a very reflective person, but this time he wasn’t thinking at all.

Katsuki Yuri wasn't only a skater with lot of untapped potential. He wasn't only the person who had danced with him and made him feel alive like he hadn't had in ages.

Katsuki Yuri was his soulmate and Victor had all the intention to fight for it.

 

It's a long battle, full of steps back and abrupt changes in strategy, doubts and small conquests, but the eventual victory is the sweetest of all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It should have been shorter. I tried to follow the same pattern of Yuri's portion, but I guess I've kind of failed.   
> YamiBaki, I don't know what your questions were, but I hope you'll enjoy the chapter nonetheless.

**Author's Note:**

> Based on tumblr post here: http://victuri-onice.tumblr.com/post/158971505622/yoi-soulmate-au-where-when-you-sing-your-soulmate


End file.
